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Traveling
by Angela CottermanI had never danced
under the mirrored lights
to Gypsy music
as we did last night,
our clothes still damp from the rain
on the avenues,
where the chestnut trees blossomed
like white-robed angels,
heralding in mist.
Now that I have,
I can't find my way back again. 05/05/2011 Posted on 05/05/2011
Copyright © 2024 Angela Cotterman
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 05/05/11 at 10:19 PM ...uh huh. maybe we don't want to find our way back...ahh, i used to think, in college, that n'wleens[new orleans] was a sodomish gomorahic heaven. goos write and your first night in madrid was nicer than nice. |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 05/05/11 at 10:20 PM ...goos write? what's a goos write? anyway, a good write. |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 05/09/11 at 10:49 PM I just love this. Written with a light, deft touch, and a brilliant conclusion. |
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